


A Month In The Desert

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Trevelyan rides for the Western Approach. Dorian is left at Skyhold to ponder their relationship.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	A Month In The Desert

Dorian woke in Trevelyan’s arms.

He remained as still as possible. Trevelyan, miracle of miracles, was still asleep. They had shared a bed for almost a fortnight, and this was the first time he had had the luxury of studying the Inquisitor’s sleeping face.

It had taken Dorian awhile to find Trevelyan handsome. He was so severe, with his shaved head and heavy brow, but his smile was wicked and his eyes were kind. He could reduce a petitioner to ashes with a glance, and lift a beggar off his knees with a soft word. He was a man of contradictions, the most demarcated person Dorian had ever met.

He was also drooling on the pillow, which was too adorable for words.

Dorian felt himself stir. He wanted to lie here like this forever, but time was short. The Inquisitor was leaving for the Approach today. He would be gone for over a month.

He slid slowly down the bed. Trevelyan’s skin smelled of night sweat, and the musk rising off his prick made Dorian’s mouth water. It was such a unique smell- the scent of morning after- and it was _Trevelyan’s_. Trevelyan whose scarred body he had mapped with his hands, Trevelyan whose bony hips left bruises, Trevelyan who could not make eye contact without giggling. The unreality of it still floored him. He had not even thought Trevelyan liked him until a few weeks ago, and now here they were, spoiling the bedsheets.

Dorian took the head of Trevelyan’s cock gently between his lips. He moistened the dry skin with his tongue, running the tip under the foreskin. A shiver ran down Trevelyan’s thighs, and Dorian heard a long intake of breath.

“I dreamed I caught a fish with my cock.” Trevelyan made a sleepy noise and slid his fingers through Dorian’s hair.

“I assure you, I am much better than a fish," said Dorian.

Trevelyan tugged on his hair. “Come here.”

“You don’t want my mouth?” said Dorian.

“I want your mouth up here.”

Dorian was tempted to ignore him, but it was hard to deny Trevelyan anything. He slid back up the bed into Trevelyan’s sleepy embrace, the Inquisitor throwing a leg over his hip for good measure.

“It’s not too late to take me with you to the Approach,” said Dorian, kissing him lightly.

“Josephine needs your help with those translations,” said Trevelyan, not opening his eyes. His lips chased Dorian’s lazily, like a horse searching for a carrot.

“I could do them in the desert and send them back to her,” said Dorian.

“I’m sure she’d appreciate the three week delay.” Trevelyan surged forward suddenly, and Dorian found himself being kissed deeply.

He gave himself over to it. This was the thrill of a new lover: the early days of discovery, the hours of hungry sex, the slow saturation of each other’s scents into their skin. There had also been embarrassing noises to get over, unpleasant odors to laugh about, small disappointments to keep to oneself—but that was part of the fun.

And now Trevelyan was riding away, right in the middle of the best part.

Dorian had bedded enough men to know that an end was inevitable. Sex would become tiresome, once endearing traits would become a bore, and they would drift apart in mutual misery. Trevelyan had assured him that he wanted more than fun, but when had that ever been true for men?

“Stay,” whispered Dorian, and was glad when it was swallowed by a kiss.

Eventually, the sun came up. They remained preoccupied until a servant knocked on the door. Trevelyan gently pulled away, and Dorian watched him rise and dress, something like panic starting to choke his chest.

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “I’ll be sleeping in your bed while you’re gone.”

Trevelyan was already reviewing papers on his desk- no doubt the day’s itinerary that would need to be checked off before he and his entourage rode west.

“Try not to find a handsome apostate to replace me,” said Dorian, examining his nails. “I’ll be terribly cross.”

Trevelyan smiled, then returned his attention to the papers. He continued to read as he gathered his travel bag and staff, his face already hardening into the inscrutable mask of the Inquisitor.

“Jack,” said Dorian.

Trevelyan blinked. He always seemed surprised when Dorian used his first name.

Dorian pointed at his lips. Trevelyan dropped his bag and staff, good humor softening his face, and slithered back into bed.

“I wasn’t going to leave without kissing you,” he said.

“I’m sure.” Dorian traced his dark eyebrows with his finger. “Do make up for it.”

Trevelyan did, but by then he was drawing away, and the kiss became an apology. “I’ll be back in a month.”

“Enjoy the sun and scorpions,” said Dorian, throwing himself onto his side. He heard the creak of the stairs followed by the soft click of the door latch. The pain in his chest spread to his throat, then his eyes. He was suddenly so bitterly angry that he wanted to break something, and deep down he knew why.

Because the beginning was ending, and that meant the end was beginning.

* * *

Dorian found it impossible to concentrate over the next few weeks. He helped Josephine as best as he could with the stack of Tevinter trade contracts she had in her office, but it wasn't long before the ambassador grew fed up with him.

“Is there something interesting outside?” asked Josephine.

Dorian roused himself. He had been staring out her window at the open sky. “Ah, no, I apologize.”

“If you need a break, Lord Pavus, we can certainly take one.” Josephine held his gaze while her quill scratched across a contract.

Leliana was right—Lady Montilyet killed with kindness.

“No, no, let us continue.” He picked up the nearest paper and forced his eyes to focus on the words.

As much as he dreaded the tedium of those sessions, he missed them as soon as he was out the door. At least with Josephine he was forced to sit in one place out of courtesy. Outside the room, he roamed the castle like a sick animal. 

He hated this. His body missed Trevelyan. He had glutted on him and now, deprived of him, he couldn't sit still. Everything reminded him of him. The honey brown of his ale was the color of Trevelyan’s eyes; the rustle of the crows in their rookery was the sound of Trevelyan stroking their feathers and cooing at them; even Solas’s baldness was similar enough to Trevelyan’s that he found himself staring at the back of the elf’s head.

The worst came at night. Dorian was true to his word—he slept alone in the Inquisitor’s massive bed. Surrounded by Trevelyan’s smell, his body responded, his cock perking up like a dog that had caught scent of its master. He’d lie there stroking it, bored and yet unable to stop, despising the tears that sprang to his eyes as he did so.

Who did Trevelyan think he was, making promises?

“I want more than just fun, Dorian.” How intoxicating that had been in the moment. Dorian had been so ready for rejection. Trevelyan’s reversal had confused him, then made him tentatively hopeful. They had made love twice more that night and fallen asleep wrapped around each other. Trevelyan had kissed him awake, and Dorian had nearly wept at the sweetness of it.

It couldn’t last. There were too many forces pulling them apart—war, politics, social disapproval. When they were together, all those things seemed unimportant, but with distance came clarity.

Dorian could see it so clearly in his head. Trevelyan would return to Skyhold with his affections cooler than before, his touch less lingering, his attention more easily diverted. It would end as all the others ended.

He simply wished it had lasted longer.

* * *

The day Trevelyan returned, Dorian made sure to stay in his alcove in the library. The trumpets blasted, and the drawbridge shuddered as the entourage rode their sweaty mounts into the yard. The Inquisitor’s red hart stood a head taller than the horses around her, her breath pluming in great jets of steam. Trevelyan all but leapt from the saddle, tugging off his gloves and tossing them to a squire as he made his way to the great hall.

Dorian’s heart lurched at the sight of him. He was struck with a wild desire to run and hide, and at the same time wanted to run and meet him at the door. He settled for staying put, his leg twitching up and down.

The Inquisitor would not come directly to him, of course. There were too many fires to put out, too many people to put up with. The thought of waiting until dinner to speak to him was both an agony and an unbearable relief. He would know in the first moments where things stood between them.

The sound of boots echoed into the rotunda. Dorian blinked. He recognized that stride.

“You’ve returned!” said Solas. He was only that cheerful for one person.

Dorian got up and went to the railing. Trevelyan was chatting with Solas, breathing hard, trying to politely pull away from the conversation. The top of his head was sunburned.

Dorian wiped his hands on his tunic. Reality unhinged as Trevelyan came running up the stairs two at a time.

“Back so soon?” Dorian struck an indifferent pose against the bannister. “And here I was just enjoying the quiet—”

Trevelyan kissed him. His arms went so tight around Dorian’s back that they lifted his feet off the ground. Dorian's mind went perfectly blank, until the scandalized whispers around them brought him back to himself.

He tugged on Trevelyan’s iron grip until he released him. Dorian staggered back, and Trevelyan’s idiot smile dimmed a little.

“Sorry, that might have been….excessive. Can we—”

“Of course.” Dorian followed him unsteadily into the library shelves. Trevelyan couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands.

“How have you been?” asked Trevelyan, stiltedly.

“Fine.” Dorian still felt like he had been slugged. “How was the Approach?”

“Full of sun. Only saw one scorpion.”

They stood at an incomprehensible impasse.

“I apologize,” said Trevelyan. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”

“With the kiss?” Dorian was becoming even more confused. “I was merely surprised. I wasn’t expecting such a warm return.”

“Why? I missed you.”

The words struck him like an arrow. He was suddenly, stupidly, on the verge of tears. 

“Who wouldn’t miss me?” he said, before dragging Trevelyan into a kiss.

It was a lot of fumbling from there. He was fairly sure he managed to get Trevelyan off in record time with just his hand, all while Trevelyan sucked on his neck like a leech and murmured all sorts of rubbish: that he had ached for him, that he had thought of him every hour, that Bull had caught him jerking off in the tent at night groaning his name. 

The sound of Trevelyan buckling his belt was obscenely loud in the library when they were done. Dorian had no doubt the patrons had just gotten an earful.

Trevelyan’s besotted expression had also been replaced with something more keen. “Why didn't you think I would miss you, Dorian Pavus?”

Dorian wiped his hand on the spine of _A History of Divine Galatea._ "I assumed you had more important matters to tend to. A month is a long time. I’m sure you have paperwork, people to meet, egos to soothe, worlds to save.”

Trevelyan touched Dorian’s neck then, his dark brows knitting together. “I meant what I said. I’m serious about you.”

“Sweet Maker, you’re going to make me puke.” Dorian swatted his hand away. “Begone with you. You might not have work to do, but I do, and you’re being a nuisance.”

One side of Trevelyan’s mouth curled up. He stroked Dorian’s neck, running a thumb over his earlobe, then was gone. The warmth of him lingered in the air. Dorian waited until the sound of his boots faded down the stairs and out of he rotunda, then collapsed against the shelf.

He smiled until his face hurt. He had missed him. Really? Really.

Doubt crept into his heart, but it was weaker this time, temporarily stunned by the full blast of Trevelyan’s unambiguous ardor. Dorian supposed it would always be there—a wound from a lifetime of rejection.

But he had been proven wrong once. No doubt Trevelyan would prove him wrong again.


End file.
